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Chargement... Somehow Goodpar William De Morgan
Actuellement, il n'y a pas de discussions au sujet de ce livre. ![]() ![]() I was wandering through Librivox, and in looking for something comforting found some recordings of E. Nesbit novels by a narrator new to me, Helen Taylor. You never know what you're going to get with volunteer readers, but Helen Taylor should be doing this for a living – she was utterly marvelous, and I had a wonderful time with Squirrel and Panther et al. Since she had done such a magnificent job with old favorites, I then looked to see what else Ms. Taylor had read, found this – a book I'd never heard of by an author I'd never heard of – and thought why not? The plot is purest soap opera, 1908 style: amnesia, lost loves, misunderstanding and lack of communication, secret shames and unknown children. I thought it would be amusing, if nothing else, and well worth a try for the narration. And it was as much fun as a soap opera can be at its best – which, truth be told, is quite a bit. The characters are marvelous – even when there are clear cases of "Oh for heaven's sake just talk to each other won't you" they're fun to hang around with. The plot took turns I found completely unexpected for the time period, without ever explicitly stating that's where it was going – it was twisty and tangled and overall frothy fun with a surprisingly strong heart at its center. Somehow great. aucune critique | ajouter une critique
Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: CHAPTER III Krakatoa Villa, And How The Electrocuted Traveller Went There In A Cab. A Curious Welcome To A Perfect Stranger. The Stranger's Label. A Cancelled Memory. Back Like A Bad Shilling Krakatoa was a semi-detached villa, a few minutes' walk from Shepherd's Bush Station. It looked like a showily dressed wife of a shabby husband; for the semi-detached other villa next door had been standing to let for years, and its compo front was in a state of decomposition from past frosts, and its paint was parched and thin in the glare of the present June sun, and peeling and dripping spiritlessly from the closed shutters among the dead flies behind the cracked panes of glass that had quite forgotten the meaning of whitening and water, and that wouldn't hack out easy by reason of the putty having gone 'ard. One knew at a glance that if the turncock was to come, see, and overcome the reluctance of the allotted cock-to-be-turned, the water would burst out at every pore of the service-pipes in that house, except the taps; and would know also that the adept who came to soften their hearts and handles would have to go back for his tools, and would be a very long time away. Krakatoa, on the other hand, was resplendent with stone- colour, and smelt strongly of it. And its door you could see through the glass of into the hall, when its shutters were not thumb-screwed up over the panes, was painted a green that staggered the reason, and smelt even more strongly than the stone-colour. And all the paint was so thick that the headings on the door were dim memories, and all the execution on the sculptured goblets on pedestals flanking the steps in the front garden was as good as spoiled. And the paint simmered in the sun, and here and there it blistered and altogether suggested that Krakatoa... Aucune description trouvée dans une bibliothèque |
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![]() GenresClassification décimale de Melvil (CDD)823.8Literature English English fiction Victorian period 1837-1900Classification de la Bibliothèque du CongrèsÉvaluationMoyenne:![]()
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